


No More Tears

by bexacaust



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mild Suicidal Ideation, Mourning, mild emeto warning, self destructive tendencies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6969094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carry on my wayward son<br/>There’ll be peace when you are done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“You did what you had to.”_

**You could have saved them, you know.**

_“Hard decisions are what make leaders.”_

**No one had to die.**

_“What will happen, will happen.”_

**But did it have to happen that way?**

Rodimus let his forehelm rest against the windowpanel, shaking in the grip of his own anger; anguish? Agony?

All those words worked.

He stared at the stars, burning hot in a cold infinity and felt his spark clench as he wished he could do that same. How he wished that his pomp and circumstance wasn’t a veneer; a thin layer of gold flake over scuffs and scars and burns from too many close calls that he can’t honestly say were accidents.

_“Be more careful!”_ Magnus would tell him.

_“Be more aware!”_ , he was told by gruff officers.

_“Don’t be stupid or you’ll end up dead!”_

At least… At least then it would be peaceful. Maybe then he wouldn’t hear the echoes of explosions, maybe then he wouldn't feel that claustrophobic sensation of Death at all sides; maybe then the cloying stench of Eau d’Battle wouldn’t fill his senses with the too sweet stink of spilled energon and the choruses of final screams like Angels on their descent from grace.

He balled his servos into a fist and slammed them against the window. Again, and again, feeling the tiny ligaments and cables in each knuckle strain, a few of them snapped.

Better his hands leak his lifeblood that his optics leak his emotions.He was a leader now, and leaders were strong, like Optimus told him. Like Optimus is. Was.

Rodimus ground his dentae together.

Optimus, who led half a world into a war. Optimus, who disappeared when they needed him the most. Optimus, just as guilty as Megatron but less likely to admit it.

What do you do when your heroes lay exposed before you?

Rodimus didn’t even realize he was choking on his own exvents until his wrist was squeezed far too tightly, and a low rumble of a voice murmured, “Enough, Rodimus.”

“L-Let me ghkgo.”, Rodimus choked out, fighting back the tightness behind his chestplate and the swollen sensation in his intake, “Just let me go, leave me ALONE would you o-old mech?!”

“No.”

Rodimus glared over his shoulder, internally wincing when he saw Megatron staring at him. Staring inTO him. He felt caught, and felt panic rising alongside his angry confusion. 

“Stop that.”

“I am not doing anything, Rodimus. The windowpanel might crack, should you keep hitting it. I’d rather not lose anyone to the vacuum of space.”

“Oh, like **I** would right?!”, snapped the young Prime, yanking his wrist free, “ **Me** , the immature brat **you** get to deal with, the **waste of time** who’s too **young** to  ** _know any better_** right?! _**RIGHT**_?!”

Megatron stood silent.

“Cause that’s all I am, aren’t I? I’m just some st-stupid lackey, right? An Autobot. Ha, why should **I** be in charge, what could **I** know of being _guilty_ or being in _pain_ or _mourning_ or _grief_ or…or…”

He choked on the final words, “O-Or **regret** , r-r-right?”

“Rodimus…”

“Just… leave me alone.”, sighed the young Prime, seeming to wilt under the gaze of his elder, “Just leave me alone, please. Lecture me later.”

“I am not here to lecture you, Rodimus. I am here because I was worried.”

“Psht right, sure. And _WHY_ would _YOU_ be worried?!”

“It is in my nature to worry.”

“Whatever. Look, I’m here. I’m just thinking; surprisingly, I DO do that. Now leave me alone, I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.”

Rodimus stilled, “Yeah I am.”

“You are not. Fine is not trying to break through reinforced ship hull pieces. Fine is not grinding your dentae so loud I heard it from the door; Rodimus, fine is not choking on your own words. Not for you.”

“Yeah it is.”, said Rodimus quietly, “This **is** fine, for me.”

Megatron’s face fell, “Rodimus…”

“When… when Nyon happened…”, he began, “… Optimus excused it. Just, waved it off. Grand words and all, y’know that? My whole world fell apart, but it was a ‘necessary military action’ y’know that?”

Megatron put a gentle hand on Rodimus’s shoulder and said, “Rodimus… You aren’t fine. You aren’t even okay.”

Megatron flinched as the cracks spread over the “image” of Rodimus Prime. As words tumbled out of faultlines in his smile and as his optics dimmed and beaded up with coolant. As he spoke so fast through a voice that coagulated in his intake and spilled over like the sluggish dregs of leaking energon.

Megatron’s memory flickered to an image of blue flowers, glimmering and bright, spreading onward for what seemed like forever.

He watched Rodimus sway as he spoke, look at him with hopelessly confused optics; pain in its purest form.

It… hurt him.

“I hear it. At night.”, whispered the young Prime, “Megatron I hear the explosions I hear them _SCREAMING FOR ME_ at night I… I was supposed to save them, I couldn’t save them but I _TRIED_ don’t they realize I _**TRIED**_ with all my **spark** I-”

Rodimus hiccuped when Megatron tugged him closer, to a warm chestplate and a sparkbeat he could count as sure as cycles would pass. As shaky, smaller servos gripped armor plating and Rodimus shattered like frozen glass.

Megatron looked down at his “co-captain”, at the young warrior swept up in something far bigger than he ever could be…

“You tried, Rodimus. You did. But sometimes.. no matter how hard you try, it doesn’t work.”, he whispered, “Sometimes, it all falls apart around you. And sometimes, you are left standing alone, wondering what went so wrong.”

Rodimus’s shoulders shook silently as he let himself truly mourn.

Megatron moved his hand to press against the top of Rodimus’s backstruts, gently murmuring to him; calming words, soothing words, traces of songs and poetry from a bygone age gilded in bright gold.

“Oh little one…”, sighed the old Warlord as Rodimus clung silently to him, “I’m so  _ **sorry**_   for what has been done to you.”

Rodimus clung tighter, optics shuttering as he buried his face against Megatron’s chestplate and merely trembled in the cold glow of star-strewn space.


	2. Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coping; Def.; that act of coming to terms with or balancing personal issues or personal struggles; coming to terms with traumatic events in ones history.

With Drift gone, it was hard.

Rodimus flitted from mech to mech, always ready with a sideways hug or a shoulder squeeze. He was a plethora of off-color jokes and smirks charged with a hard-to-place energy.

But, slowly…

It began to slip away.

It began with ordinary members of the crew. One by one, they pulled away, shrugged him off.

They questioned his motivations for wanting closeness with so many, they made assumptions and each one hurt a little more.

Flirtations. Propositions. Promiscuity. Thoughtlessness, manipulation, the words piled higher and higher and he whispered his apologies over and over.

I’m sorry.

That’s not what I meant.

I didn’t mean it that way.

Please stop.

He began to recede, farther and farther and his circle grew smaller and smaller.

The final straw came when he leaned against Magnus, weary and weak and struggling to fight his inner demons when his own voice began to fail; and Magnus put a hand to his shoulder and gave a gentle push.

“Rodimus, enough.”

“Wha-”

“I am your S.I.C; not your berthmate. These come-ons are severely affecting your performance.”

“It’s, It’s not a-”

“Rodimus, honestly. Enough. It’s time you grew up. You aren’t some adolescent racing around and leaving tiretracks behind; you are a Captain, behave like one.”

Rodimus stared at Magnus, lost.

“This attention-seeking, pseudo coddling behavior needs to end.”

And Magnus left him with those words. Those vicious, destructive words.

Rodimus receded further, lashing out with vindictive language and sarcasm. The crew learned to avoid him when he was “in a mood” as they called it. No one noticed the tremble in his hands. No one saw the flicker in his optics like a hunted animal and no one heard him when he tried to recharge and his nightmares chased him.

He particularly focused on Megatron, and it was passed off as jealousy.

They were half right. It was.

Rodimus needed. In the purest sense of the word. He saw affection all around him, given in words and platonic touches and he craved it; he craved the same thing like energon, like free will.

All he had to survive on was the careless dismissal of a home ended; of a life lost. 

When Drift returned, he became a supernova, he ran to Drift, apologies already bubbling in his intake and suffusing his vocalizer interspersed with a desperate need for grounding, for notice, for something that wasn’t criticism and-

“Back off.”

“Wh-”

“You heard me Roddy. Back off.”, said Drift tiredly, “Not now, not today, not tomorrow. Leave me ALONE.”

Rodimus crumbled invisibly into himself as he nodded. Drift turned slightly, curious. He wondered why Rodimus didn’t immediately go into a spiel about missing him, about friendship.

He watched in sudden worry as Rodimus merely nodded and whispered, “I’m sorry.” and seemed to shrink as he turned on his heel and retreated. 

His shock doubled at the sight of Megatron narrowing his optics at the retreating orange mech.

“He’s been that way a while.”, said the darker colored co-captain as he walked with Drift to the TIC’s habsuite, “I’ve noticed him falling quieter as well. Not as animated.”

“Weird.”

“Indeed.”

They said their goodnights and went their separate ways.

And then… Rodimus grew ill.

His frame shook, his voice rasped. Keeping energon down became a battle of wills he often lost. His paint began to chip and he seemed to stagger more than walk.

It was when he passed out in a meeting with Megatron and Magnus that the worry hit its peak. It was Megatron who carried the limp figure into the medbay, calling for Ratchet as he did. It was Drift who sat beside the berth as Rodimus vented shallowly, optics offline.

Ratchet shook his head, “Tox screen is clean, no presence of any foreign bodies…”

“So he’s sick but he’s not ill. Helpful.”, said Megatron sourly.

“The only thing I can think of, given no history of chronic issues or the presence of anything to trigger such reactions is something psychosomatic.”, murmured Ratchet.

“Then call Rung.”, said Drift flatly.

Ratchet opened his mouth to snap about being given orders; until he saw the sharp backwards tilt of finials; the harsh glint of optics.

He looked back to Megatron to see a hard set mouth and furrowed brow. And the imaptient tapping of servos.

“…Gimme a klik then.”

Rung seemed to appear, moments after being commed. Taking a glimpse at Rodimus, and then looking over what Ratchet had gathered in the moments after Rodimus had been carried in, barely responsive; the psychiatrist looked up tot the group.

“Rodimus is, to put it in layman’s terms, an anxious wreck with a good spark.”, he said quietly, “Anxiety, depression, recovering from trauma, and a near-hardwired instinct to internalize everything. His coping methods are unorthodox, but not unexpected.”

“And they are?”, asked Ratchet.

“Affection seeking.”

“Oh, so he feeds on attention.”, said Ratchet sarcastically, tones low and bitter.

“No. He uses affection to cope. He uses touch; to remind him he is alive, he has survived, that he is welcome and not hated.”, said Rung sharply, a scold in his voice, “Something everyone needs but he feels he doesn’t deserve.”

“Makes sense.”, said Megatron.

Rung turned to him.

“Not long ago I… I found Rodimus, alone. Upset.”, said Megatron, “He… he was not alright. I comforted him the best I could.”

“How so?”, asked Rung.

“I held him.”, said Megatron simply, “I held him, and told him he had done the best he could and that was all anyone could expect of him.”

“That’s basically what I do.”, said Drift, “Just let him know someone is there. That he’s okay.”

“How long ago was this?”

Drift looked up, “Before I left.”

“Half a stellar cycle ago.”, was Megatron’s answer.

Rodimus suddenly whined, optics trying to online. He gagged, retched, and pushed himself to lean over the side of the berth. Drift moved quickly, hooking a small bin with a pede and nudging it under Rodimus hanging helm.

The normally fiery mech retched hideously, shuddering as nothing came up. Nothing left to.

“Roddy?”, whispered Drift, “Roddy can you hear me? It’s Drift.”

A low groan.

“Roddy you need fuel-”, began the white mech laying a hand on Rodimus’s shoulder and stroking.

Rodimus reacted instantly, as though burned. He shuddered, wailing, pushing away and further onto the berth. Drift looked shocked, moving closer and Rodimus let his engine growl in warning.

Rung watched passively.

Drift looked to Ratchet, then to Megatron in confusion, “I… don’t understand-”

“When you returned.”, said Megatron, “And he went to you, and you told him to leave you alone. He must have taken it to heart.”

“I didn’t mean… I was just tired I-”

“Drift, calm. It’s nothing on you. Rodimus was no doubt nearing the end of his rope in regards to this.”, said Rung quietly, approaching the berth. He sat gently, letting his field wash over Rodimus in waves of calm-acceptance-care and the orange mech immediately latched onto it; contorting to cling to a narrow waist and shiver as the rest of his frame curled to follow.

“How do we help him?”, asked Ratchet.

“Well, for one, we need to inquire as to what led up to this. This is not something that happens in a few kliks, or a cycle; this is something that builds and builds until it tips the scales and we have this.”, said Rung, “And we need someone to keep him level.”

Megatron approached, “I will.”

“Oh really, the WARLORD is gonna-”, began Ratchet.

“I comforted him once before when you lot failed to notice, why not again?”, asked Megatron coldly.

Rung extricated himself, letting Megatron move closer. A new field extended, and Rodimus’s optics onlined a little brighter as he recognized it. He reached towards it, pushing himself off the berth as Megatron’s larger hand took his and supported his shaking frame.

“Clear the halls.”, said Megatron quietly, “I’ll not let the crew mock him for this.”

“Who says they would?”, piped up Drift.

“We let him fall this far. I wouldn’t put it past Autobots to mock an injury they can’t see. They’ve done to you for how long now?”

Rung made a sound of agreement, looking to Ratchet.

The CMO commed Ultra Magnus, informing him there was a medical situation and to clear a select few hallways. Megatron let Rodimus lean against him, almost carrying the young captain as they slipped out of the medbay. Rung walked along with them, fielding questions by the few faces that passed.

Megatron stopped in front of his own habsuite, keying in the code.

“Why yours, Megatron?”

“No one will come hunting for him. He needs peace.”, said Megatron quietly.

“I’m glad you understand him, Megatron.”

The alarmed look he recieved made Rung snicker, “You think I cannot tell when kindred spirits meet? I’m a PSYCHOLOGIST. I know of your history, Megatron. I know where you have been. I know how it affects a mech. I’ve known Cybertronians from any and all walks of life. And I’m glad you understand him. Thank you.”

Megatron coughed awkwardly at the thanks, tried to hide the pleased smile when Rung patted a heavy grey arm.

Megatron slipped into his habsuite, and let the door shut.

Rodimus whimpered when he felt Megatron shift beside him, hands scrabbling for a hold on grey plating until Megatron hushed him gently. The ex-Decepticon shifted and scooped Rodimus up easily, walking to the chair the old co-captain spent many nights reading in and he sat heavily. He settled Rodimus on his lap, letting the orange mech lean against the hum of a beating spark.

And Megatron himself began to hum. Songs he heard once upon a time, in the darkness of the underground. He wrapped his arms around Rodimus and rocked him side to side as he remembered being done to him once long ago.

Long ago; when he was young, when the darkness terrified him. When he first scrambled into a bolt hole and hugged knees to chestplate. When he was still head and shoulders smaller than the others, before his frame was modified properly.

And Rodimus stared, unseeing, clinging and shivering and drinking in the feel of being held, of the ripples of a field projecting calmness and assurance and approval.

“You did well, little one.”, murmured Megatron suddenly, “You held on so long, I am proud. We are proud.”

Rodimus gagged on a wail.

“You have done well, we are so proud of you; let us help you, we are here now. I am here now, little mech.”

Memories of a time where wings drooped until his praise was heard flooded back to him, and Megatron shuttered his optics and continued to speak in low, soft tones.

He shifted Rodimus again, resting his cheek on top of Rodimus’s helm and continuing to rock them both.

“You are strong, stronger than I realized; you have held on so long and I am proud of you. You’ve done so well, now rest, you are safe.”

Rodimus shuddered, moving to bury his face against Megatron and hold on tighter.

Flashes of sharp white finials perking as Megatron spoke, as Megatron grinned down and gave praise with a heavy hand on an armored shoulder and he saw the first glimmers of some kind of self esteem.

Megatron leaned back, venting easily as Rodimus settled against him and tumbled headlong into the first real recharge he’d had in who knows how long. Megatron stroked curled backstruts as his voice faded and he picked up a datapad, idly reading until he too dozed off.

His comms beeped, and he ignored it, seeking only peace for the pair of them as the stars watched the ship drift through space.


	3. Overmedicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron gathered the remnants of a fallen star where they lay, strewn across a habsuite floor and nestled into disaster, and took him to the only one he trusted enough to help him piece the mech back together.
> 
> And far too early, praying its not too late- the Warlord of the Decepticons tapped long-dulled servos against Drift's door until it opened to show a drowsy TIC absently trying to rub away red paint transfers with a lazy expression.
> 
> "Help me."

 

**_Baby, don't go_ **   
**_I'll stop breathing coke_ **   
**_No more bloody nose_ **   
**_No more John Does_ **

 

_"He spent some time with us, yes.", said Perceptor, lazily, knowingly, bitterly, "And I fear he picked up a few habits that are not conducive to pristine mental health, to say the least."_

 

_Megatron swallowed back the wince as Perceptor spiked his own drink with something dark, something ominous, something in an unmarked flask he hid in his subspace with a sharp bark of something like laughter._

 

_"Asking me question upon question won't help you, Captain.", were the growled words, "Because I know what you've done to the mech- what the crew has done to him. And I don't believe it can be fixed with a pat on the back and a hug."_

 

_With that, Perceptor fell pointedly silent before standing, "I have an appointment to keep. Good evening, and good luck."_

 

Megatron watched Perceptor stride out of Swerve's, helm held high and other crewmembers shrinking away from his cold presence like they'd been burned by his very existence. Megatron sat, alone, thinking quietly- chasing himself around his own processor and trying to parse what Perceptor meant by 'what you've done to the mech' when a textcomm flashed in on his HUD out of nowhere, from Rodimus. Opening the message revealed a garbled line of glyphs, nonsense in the syntax of a cry for help built of a confused lexicon of panic and anxiety. Megatron closed the come and stood in a hury, all-but running out of the bar and down ever-lengthening halls like his life depended on it.

He feared, deep down, the Rodimus's might.

He nearly stumbled as he stopped short in front of Rodimus's habsuite, pounding on the door with a closed fist and rumbling his co-Captain's name to no answer; no response, not even a demand for quiet or privacy that could be answered with some kind of affectionate sarcasm.

When the override code failed, Megatron called upon his old fallback-brute force. He dug old servos into the frame of the door, baring his fangs and hauling hard against heavy duty machinery to force the door open with an angry squeal of shorn bolts and shattered gearwork.

The room was destroyed; shelves torn from the walls and scorchmarks staining the soft color of the walls like old energon in the sun. The shimmer of glass on the floor like comet-tail dust led a trail to none other than Rodimus. Rodimus, who hugged his knees and gave a gurgling wheeze as his optics flickered out of time and Megatron remembered- oh he remembered a scenario too similar to be safe or within his control. He remembered sharp finials and a sneer and glowing hellish greens.

He picked his way over the mess, getting down on one knee to gently shake Rodimus, whispering to him. When there was no answer, Megatron raised his voice, shaking the mech a little harder by the shoulder and felt his spark drop into his tanks as Rodimus simply leaned to the side and fell in a heap on the floor with another low gurgle.

Megatron gathered the remnants of a fallen star where they lay, strewn across a habsuite floor and nestled into disaster, and took him to the only one he trusted enough to help him piece the mech back together.

And far too early, praying its not too late- the Warlord of the Decepticons tapped long-dulled servos against Drift's door until it opened to show a drowsy TIC absently trying to rub away red paint transfers with a lazy expression.

"Help me."

Drift blinked before glancing at the limp bundle in Megatron's arms- and hissed a swear before throwing the door wide open.

"Perce, sugarspark get the washrack runnin' cold!", he hollered back into his hab, leading Megatron in before tapping the door control to close it. Perceptor, equally scuffed and with a soft blush on faceplates, pressed his mouth into a disapproving line before beckoning Megatron farther back with a nod of his helm. The ex-Warlord glanced down at the unmoving mech in his arms as he followed with careful steps-audials catching the sounds of running solvent and the growl of a drain.

Perceptor waved him over, taking Rodimus from Megatron's arms and situating him under the cool spray that burst into steam as it touched the speedster's plating to leave tear-trails of condensation down the washrack walls.

"Drift, he's still cycling through his vents, we're going to have to trigger a purge."

"I know, I know! I'm gettin' the kit so we can keep him awake 'til Ratchet gets here."

Drift trotted into the washroom, popping the latch on a small silver case as Perceptor felt over Rodimus's forearm for the medical ports. Megatron watched, a worried hen with their brood, as Perceptor pried open the tiny arm panel on the near-comatose Captain before nodding at Drift. The swordsmech knelt, muttering to himself as slipping something out of his subspace-

"What's that?", demanded Megatron.

"A shocking development, what else?"

The tiny object, round in appearance but with prongs jutting out in a pair, snapped with sudden electricity as Drift wedged it between abdominal plating.

"Get ready to brace him Perce, he's gonna hate this."

"This isn't my first time dealing with self destruction."

The snap of electricity again, and Rodimus jolted into painful wakefullness and immediately retched- turning his helm towards the drain as his abdominal plating convulsed violently. Garbled vocoder feedback sounded into the room, and Perceptor wrinkled his nasal ridge at the neon the oozed from the soaked CoCaptain like a river of misery. The sniper's steady hands held Rodimus stable, even when the mechs frame shuddered and rattled from the force of his systems kicking back everything they had.

Drift was already working on one of Rodimus's lines in his wrist-joint, grumbling and fretful even as the sound of Ratchet barging into the room in high temper sounded behind them.

AS Rodimus was finally able to swallow and Ratchet clicked a cable into the medical port with narrowed optics, the speedster sighed weakly and sank back against the wall.

"Dammit."

His voice was thin and rough, and Megatron's optics narrowed.

"...Rodimus, tomorrow you, Rung, and I are going to have a very. Very. Long talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commenters and kudos-droppers: this one's for you.


End file.
